


Potluck Crack Vignettes/Random Scenes of Fluff to Help Us Deal with Liverpool's Season of Insanity

by anonlytree, ballade_at_thirtyfive



Series: Coping Mechanism for LFC's 13/14 Season [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Future AU, HELP THIS SEASON IS KILLING ME!, M/M, fluffy crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1565381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonlytree/pseuds/anonlytree, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballade_at_thirtyfive/pseuds/ballade_at_thirtyfive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liverpool's 2013/2014 season has left me emotionally vandalized and robbed me of my last remnants of sanity. So I began to write crack comment fic to ballade_at_thirtyfive's Donostia Future!verse. You should really read her stories instead, starting with There Is Hope for Us Yet, but she insists on publishing these and I wouldn't dare say No to her. (Also, I'm trying to lure her to publish her own).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The one before the Palace game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ballade_at_thirtyfive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballade_at_thirtyfive/gifts).
  * Inspired by [There is hope for us yet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/992062) by [ballade_at_thirtyfive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballade_at_thirtyfive/pseuds/ballade_at_thirtyfive). 



Stevie breathes a sigh of relief once he realizes the muffled teenaged giggling coming from the kitchen over the clattering of pots and pans is that of his daughter and Jon Alonso returning at... 4:35 a.m. (by Stevie's watch) from a night out in town.

Relief in this particular scenario is a luxury not many fathers in San Sebastián can afford. Perhaps it's the appreciation of small silver linings that makes him stop short of actually entering the kitchen. Or perhaps it's hearing Jon say:

"Lex, we had this conversation before. My father is absolutely more embarrassing than yours. Stevie _knows_ he's lame, I like that about him," through mouthfuls of the baked spider crab Xabi had casually leftover on the stove after his lonely dinner. “But I have to deal with a middle-aged hipster who was secretly hoping we’d ask him to come to the gig tonight!”

Stevie peeks around the kitchen entrance to see Lexie consider this carefully over a platter of leftover pintxos she’s devouring.

“Yeah, well… if Dad hadn’t had his freakout yesterday maybe we’d have taken Xabi along; he’d have paid for some decent drinks. That Kalimoochoo stuff is proper disgusting!”

Jon’s tipsy snort-laugh is providential for Stevie since it covers the rather loud grunt flying out of his chest as he flattens himself against the wall. This is exactly why he’d held his ground, this is exactly why it’s his second night (not) sleeping on the sofa, fucking hell… his middle child, his precious angel had succumbed to teenaged binge drinking! Probably had God knows what slipped into her oversized plastic cup in one of those bars in Parte Vieja where sweaty blokes in too tight shirts accidentally rub themselves against you until Xabi death-glares them into scurrying away…

“Do you think he’ll stay mad at you until you leave?”

“I think he’s taking it all out on Xabi,” Lexie shrugs and Stevie notes that despite the giggling and obvious case of the munchies, they’re not only not slurring their words, but also making a modicum of sense, so his pulse goes down from tachycardia territory.

Still, he’s got half a mind to run upstairs, barge into the bedroom and yell I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO! at Xabi until he’s blue in the face. Which may not take all that long given how ready to punch him in the face Xabi had been the previous night when Jon announced he was taking Lexie to “hang out with his crew” on Zurriola beach. That had somehow gotten lost in translation until it sounded a lot like “engage in teenage orgies sprinkled with rivers of crystal meth and howling at the moon” to Stevie.

“Steven, you’re ENGLISH! Lex has seen Liverpool players passed out in their own vomit in your game room since before she could walk and she’s somehow managed to grow up into a smart, responsible young lady anyway!”

“It’s not Lexie I’m worried about… I’ve seen those shaggy surfers that loiter around the beach huts there... with their beer cans and their weed... Xabi, do you remember what being a teenaged boy’s like? I do! Seventeen-year-olds have only one thing on their minds, day and night!”

“What?!? Danny Murphy?”

…

Things had degenerated rather rapidly from there. Lexie slamming the door to the guest bedroom while Jon hadn’t even bothered with closing any doors on his way out was only the beginning. The truly fun part had not even been the screaming match (aka debate on parenting styles) with Xabi, held in front of a very confused, very drool-y dog; nor the subsequent night spent tossing and turning on the sofa. Hell, it hadn’t even been Stevie’s solitary beans on toast breakfast while Xabi was out “jogging” and his daughter was in fuming (still). The true highlight of Steven Gerrard’s day came around lunchtime with a phone call from Alex.

Lexie therefore got parental permission to go to a concert with Jon on Saturday night, Xabi got an extra smug tinge to his studied indifference towards the matter (or towards Stevie’s existence) and the dog got a completely unnecessary dose of refined carbs as Stevie dumped his takeaway Thai noodle lunch into his bowl in silent protest.

“Do you ever find it… I dunno… weird?” Stevie snaps back to attention when he hears his daughter’s question. “I mean, I know it was really fucked up at first with the tabloids and all that, but now… we’re a thousand miles away, but you actually live with them.”

Jon shrugs.

“It’s a lot less weird than before,” he says, licking some leftover txangurro off his thumb. “Dad was… he was really quiet a lot of the time, probably thought kids are too dumb to notice. My parents absolutely refused to fight. About anything.” The kitchen flood lights don’t reach far enough for Stevie to see Lexie’s eyebrows shooting up, but he can picture her reaction clear enough regardless. “So… yeah… After a few years it got… Nobody was ever allowed to be unhappy in that house. I never saw Dad have any reason to be in this one, so…”

They chew in silence for a few moments before Jon pipes up again.

“Ane asked me the same thing when I came here actually. I think for her it was… She was saying how it was weird they were… having this thing before she was born. Before _I_ was born.” He stops briefly to swallow a giggle, as if he’d just remembered something unbearably comical. “She’s OK with it now, but she freaks them out a little, not the other way around. She caught them snogging in the kitchen when she came to visit…”

“No way!” Lexie has to lean forward till her head’s almost inside the casserole to avoid swallowing her fork.

“Stevie couldn’t slide his arse off the counter fast enough! Still had a leg hooked around Dad apparently, so he took half the spice jars on the way down with him. Fortunately everyone was wearing clothes.”

Stevie rolls his eyes out when they’re still not done choking on their laughter after a minute and a half.

“Is there *any* doubt about whose Dad is more pathetic?” Lexie asks once they recover a bit.

“Nah…” Jon shakes his head. Stevie’s a little worried by how Scouse he manages to sound in three languages sometimes.

“Mate, come on… Xabi at least knows the difference between worrying about us being bullied at school because your big gay Dad could get caught by the paparazzi holding hands with his boyfriend at a concert and being bullied cause it was the Coldplay Reunion Tour.”

The sheer joy in their laughing fit is too much for Stevie to take (a) it was an amazing show and b) it was Mr. Cool Dad Alonso who teared up at We Never Change, for fuck's sake!) and he steps into the kitchen before he has time to consider that he’s wearing pajama pants and the Liverpool kit from '06 and holding a steaming iron that needs a refill.

“Hi, Stevie,” Jon greets, mouth still half-full and grinning.

“You two had a good time?” he asks, his voice scratchy from lack of sleep.

Lexie jumps off the stool and pulls her Joni Mitchell tshirt over her midriff quickly.

“Guess what? Still not pregnant!” she says, then takes her seat back and props her elbow on the kitchen counter.

Stevie makes a face at her bellybutton ring (thanks, Alex) and tries to move as matter-of-factly as possible towards the sink.

“Dad…? Have you been… ironing all night?”

“I give up, your father wins this round,” Jon concedes to Lexie, scooping up some of the grilled peppers from her casserole.

“Shut it, Alonso! Your pelota uniform has never looked better,” Stevie mumbles, popping the cap back on the refilled water container of his super smooth steam iron.

“Dios… Stevie, listen to me,” Jon climbs off his chair and makes his way towards the sink under Lexie’s half-tearful eyes. He smells of Kalimotxo and something herbal Stevie would rather not identify. “I’m a teenager, I have enough drama already and you’re ruining my life, hombre!”

Stevie opens his mouth to protest, but it’s all in vain.

“Xabi now thinks he has to impress you… to be Aita of the Year by taking an active interest in everything I do. Joder, yesterday he asked me if I wanted to talk about girls to him. _Girls_ , Stevie!” his eyes bulge out like Stevie’s supposed to find that particularly preposterous. “So, please… You have to go back to having sex with my father,” he concludes with big, hopeful, shimmering eyes and Lexie doesn’t have the heart to warn him that her own father looks like he’s contemplating monastic life effective immediately so the conversation might be a tad counterproductive. “The sooner the better. You should go upstairs right now and surprise him, keep things fresh…”

Stevie can still hear them giggling halfway up the staircase. He’d feel ashamed about whatever lame comeback he’d thought up before he dumped his anxiety-smoothing machine in the living room, but he just lacks the energy. Jon had thanked him for the uniform at least, with that very Alonso type of politeness the kid can’t be faulted for inheriting, but his own flesh and blood…

Stevie cracks open the bedroom door and immediately feels the weight of two nights of shitty sleep pressing on his bones when he sees Xabi sprawled on his belly across their bed, his elegant limbs stretching messily in all directions and his nose buried under one corner of Stevie’s scrunched up pillow. (At least the cleaning lady can’t legitimately grumble about not having a single piece of linen left to iron in the whole house…)

The skin of Xabi’s back feels as cold as it looks in the faint light of dawn when Stevie slips under the covers, half next to half on top of him. Xabi curls his spine under Stevie’s weight for half a second then relaxes again when he feels Stevie’s lips trailing on the edge of the hair behind his ear.

“Mrrrmh… kids?” Xabi mutters into the pillow.

“Jon and Lexie are back,” Stevie whispers against the nape of Xabi’s neck.

“Is she pregnant?”

Stevie’d ask back if he’s sure he didn’t have a revenge one night stand with Alex in late 2005, but Lexie’s too much his spitting image for the line to work for him any better than it had for the Blueshite.

“We'll find out tomorrow, I’m buying her a test,” he says instead, his hand trailing down Xabi’s bare shoulder, across his bent elbow and his forearm tucked under his own pillow. Stevie stops at his wrist, caressing the hairs above the joint.

“Xabs?”

“Hmmm…”

“I never did anything with Danny Murphy.”

Xabi lets out a puff of warm breath into the pillow which Stevie can only guess would come out as roaring laughter if Xabi were awake enough.

“I didn’t realize it was so important for you to be the one who took my flower,” Stevie adds, suddenly coy and barely able to not crack up. “It was kinda hot how you got all snide-y jealous tho…”

Stevie's about to complain about double standards ( _hardly a virgin when you met me..._ ), but he feels Xabi’s body coil under him with such speed, it sends a warm shock through his belly, especially when he lands on top of his furry chest and realizes touching a still sleepy Xabi all over is the reverse of the cool side of the pillow.

“Shut up and take your pants off,” Xabi whispers against his lips before he tugs Stevie closer by the scruff of his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. We go to Tony Pulis next. On a cold Monday night at Selhurst Park. This is my way of coping with Tony Pulis fixtures.
> 
> 2\. I just... [I don't even know anymore, man. ](https://31.media.tumblr.com/41031951535e3d7e2ce0a95edf7126fd/tumblr_n4gre7yB0A1tzhxfpo1_500.jpg)This season has cracked me to the core.
> 
> 3\. [Sometimes I just like to imagine the Xabi in this verse reading Stevie's occasionally super melodramatic autobiography.](http://steven-gerrard.tumblr.com/post/37644254320/danny-was-my-room-mate-almost-my-soul-mate-a) (My life, I know...)
> 
> 4\. You just know Xabi liked Coldplay before it was (un)cool (Parachutes). [Stevie's A Rush of Blood to the Head kinda guy though.](http://steven-gerrard.tumblr.com/post/33521332144)
> 
> 5\. Kalimotxo is gross, unless you're into cheap wine+Coke (not judging, just sayin'...)


	2. In which Dona Isabel is (obviously) a badass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dona Isabel is (obviously) a badass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all due to anonlytree realizing that Dona Isabel is the Queen Of All Things Ever Especially Wit And Some Serious Smirking. Here's her translation of Xabi talking about his mother in an interview: '"His mother's also the one who warns him about media overexposure now. Sometimes she'll say to me: 'Xabi, aren't you a little tired of yourself?'[alternative translation - and this is very important but sadly impossible to verify without live recording of voice/intonation/facial expression: 'Aren't you a little dull by now?'] and I think she's probably right."'
> 
> I just went from there.

 

 

_July 9 th, 2009, San Sebastian_

It’s really just a matter of courtesy. When he got married you sent him all your best wishes beautifully calligraphed on cream coloured heavy paper. You signed almost at the bottom of the page so Nagore’s signature would be first and spit perhaps with too much vigour on the stamps, but as far as common courtesy went, you were golden.

It’s his turn to engage in a useless exercise of politeness and your turn to end your very long engagement.

Yours and Nagore’s that is.

You look again at your phone, willing it to make some sort of sound that would disrupt you from the pathetic state of laughing at your own word games. You used to receive so many texts from him that consisted solely of random letter and numbers (he used to sit on his phone and never remembered to block the keys) and now nothing. Now here you are, focusing all your energy into ignoring the larger picture and hoping against better judgement that at least his ass would have the courtesy to text you.

You’re on your second glass of brandy (because ignoring the larger picture is very much an active process) when your mum walks in, cradling Jon and speaking to him in soft whispers. You are immensely thankful for your son because he provides you with a great tactical advantage as the most angelic buffer zone. His presence makes ignoring all that clusterfuck of a bigger picture inside your head so much easier while also discouraging people from venturing outside baby talk and asking you why you are on your second glass of brandy at 9 am. You wonder a bit why Stevie didn’t carry Lilly around with him. While a locker room is clearly not the best place for a toddler, it would have saved you from some truly embarrassing silences.

(Are you even allowed to miss her?)

That's beside the point anyway.

‘Xabi, dear, do you know what’s worse than realizing on your wedding day that you don’t want to get married?’

Numbness is all you’ll allow yourself.

It takes you some time for her question to reach you because she’s still talking in a baby voice, smiling unperturbed at Jon while he makes grabby hands for her earrings. When her question does reach you (which takes quite a while, maybe due to the fact that Mikel’s idea of a bachelor party involves all the alcohol on a 10 miles radius), you feel almost betrayed. The baby was supposed to protect you from discussing anything deeper than colour coded ribbons that were not perfectly colour coded.

‘Realizing ten years in.’

You’re in awe at how gently she’s cradling your son’s skull while also sporting a smirk so sharp you feel like checking yourself for internal bleeding.

You refuse to meet her eyes because lying to yourself is one thing but lying to your mother is a different science altogether.  

So in all further accounts of this incident, you’ll just assume you were hallucinating.

She grins at you with the same affection and pretend desperation she uses on Jon. (Oh, who’s a fussy boy that won’t take his nap? And what about you not going to sleep because you have to share with Mikel and Stevie once told you that you talk in your sleep? Oh, yes, dear, your nose was there all along. Pick-a-fucking-boo! )

‘Xabi, can you take him? I’ll go make him a bottle,’ she deposits him in your arms and you involuntarily mirror his toothless smile. ‘And who knows, maybe the fact that you smell like a distillery will put him to sleep.’

 

 

_October 2021, San Sebastian_

You were worried. Fucking hell were you worried! You used to wake up in the middle of the night and just sit at the kitchen table, chewing your nails until a sluggish Stevie came over and laid a grounding kiss on the nape of your neck. He didn’t say anything, but his sleepy, bare-footed, clumsy presence was more than enough to take you out of your brain’s daily edition of worse case scenarios and back into the dark kitchen. You stretched your arms on the table and rested your head upon them, watching him make tea with a faint smile on your lips.

You much prefer coffee but even the very best espresso has nothing on watching Stevie’s hands move so at ease in your kitchen.

He puts too much milk, stirs counterclockwise and then burns his tongue, swearing under his breath. You look at his mouth moving in silent curses and you blush thinking of where that mouth has been. He adds two and half tablespoons of sugar when he thinks you aren’t looking and you’re always tempted to remind him about his lectures on _your_ eating habits (keeping chocolate in the bedside drawer is perfectly normal, thank you very much) but you take way too much pleasure in watching him trying to be conspicuous to ever act on that impulse.

You circle his wrist with your fingers or sometimes intertwine your hands in the first rays of sunshine but it always feels as if he’s the one holding you in vibrating silence.

You look up at him through half lidded eyelids and warmth swells in your chest.

You love him.

You love him when he smiles back at you and when he drags you back to bed. You love him when he eats all your chocolate and you love him when you trace his hairline with lazy kisses, forgetting everything else. You love him when he washes his hands for the 11th time in one hour and you love him when he tries to make conversation with the people in the chorizo shop. When he’s watching that damned reality show on that tablet, trying to hide it whenever you walk past, when his eyes start tearing because you used too many spices but he still insists, face an angrier red than Liverpool kits, that he likes it like this, when he frets for three days because Lilly went bowling with a boy..

You love him.

And you need him to be loved by those who love you. It’s not the more rational thing you’ve ever experienced but Stevie never fell into any of your rational explanations anyway.

You need him to be loved.

And so you worried.

Of course, you came to realize that some of these worries were unfounded. Jon, your younger brother, asked if he could now make a move on Nagore, Mikel started taking the piss for every time you called him a queen when he had claimed to have a better sense of style and your father.. your father starred at you for a small eternity and then told you to love him better. You wanted to ask him what that meant. Better than you had loved Nagore? Better than Stevie had been loved? Better than all those Liverpool supporters put together could love him?

By the time you were ready to link words together under this new circumstance in which your father was ready to acknowledge that you were in a relationship with Steven Gerrard for things other than his passing ability, Stevie himself returned from the loo and fell back into the conversation with your father so naturally that you had to excuse yourself and down three glasses of whiskey at the bar.

On the other hand, it was not your father that worried you the most. You father knew Steven Gerrard and was on the way to knowing Stevie all because he knew football.

You mother, however, never cared much for football. She didn’t know that loyalty and love can so easily transcend off the pitch. She knew Nagore, she loved her grandchildren and she was not a big fan of divorces.

Looking back, you see that you were quite right to worry, even if you did it for the wrong reasons.

Your mother and Stevie are now giggling across from you, well under way to finishing a bottle of sherry. To his benefit, Stevie probably drank the first glass of the sweet concoction to appease your mother. You’ll make him no excuses for the next 6 glasses. Or for the fucking giggling.

For the love of God, you saw him drink Irishmen under the table and now he’s holding onto your mother and gesticulating wildly, slurring his words. Or maybe he’s trying to speak in Spanish, you can’t really tell. Anyway, it seems like the language barrier is easily surpassed if the topic of conversation is something that makes them both cry with laughter.

Something like your 'PR bullshit'.

Stevie is now recounting an interview you gave a couple of weeks ago and your mum is howling with laughter at the fact that you changed your clothes three times and spent most of the morning either looking in the mirror or moving things around.

‘Si, si, I remember because he called me all day asking me whether he should shave his beard or not!’

‘My God, Isabel', because of fucking course they are on first name basis, 'that beard, I swear it would be the first thing he’d think to save in a fire!’

‘That doesn’t even make sense. It’s bloody attached to me, isn’t it?’

‘Xabier, language!’

You’re racking your brain for ways in which to transmit to Stevie your current feeling towards him without using any foul language when your father shakes his head amused and handles you a glass of whiskey.

‘It’s important for people to see two men, former footballers, in a committed relationship with each other-’

‘Relationship, my arse! You talked about socio-economic bullshit and expensive watches the whole interview!’

‘Now, now Esteban, think of all those poor, confused teenagers who never miss an edition of the Financial Times' ‘How to Spend It’ supplement!

They start laughing again and fucking hell, you were so, so, so right to worry.


	3. In which Stevie makes a life-changing discovery then forgets all about it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two things you need to know [about](https://31.media.tumblr.com/3c9d08fb28b082b43b777b3e28c84f7f/tumblr_n34ccoPLIt1sfbz2qo1_500.gif) [this one](https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQULaEbdAJS_SMw8_i3DwkNgcH4VLNphO8__EGTFrazz1hXo8CB). Well, [there's](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/A-sgb4bCAAEX2fD.jpg)[also](http://www.warrenphotographic.co.uk/photography/bigs/04567-Ginger-father-cat-and-kitten-white-background.jpg)...
> 
> Secondly, I haven't consulted ballade_at_thirtyfive, who first introduced Stevie cursing his star while chasing the dog on the beach in her original story, but I'm fairly sure this is [The Beast.](http://media.kids-myshot.nationalgeographic.com/2011/01/4d3a46c18f4eeNewfie_Puppy_large_medium.JPG)

Jon curls a calming arm around the sizable neck of his dog who is sprawled on the living room sofa. Both their heads whip towards the front door when the loud thump lands. Moments later, the source of the noise becomes clear when Xabi finally manages to shove his way through the entrance, hands-free. He's stooped under the weight of a giggly Steven whom he's struggling to keep attached to his back as his arms are only very loosely hanging onto Xabi's neck.

" _Don't!_ " is all Xabi says, in Basque and through gritted teeth.

Even if Jon had intended to say something, his mouth hangs open too wide for any words to actually form. The dog is equally slack-jawed but content to drool on the pillows.

Xabi dumps Steven on the narrow unoccupied corner of the sofa with a grunt and stands up to straighten his clothes. Half of any questions Jon might have had are answered by the sticky sugary smell coming off Steven and the mile-wide glassy grin stretching across his face.

"Your grandma's boss, kid! D'you know she has pictures of your Dad at your age scowling even harder than you? He was so cute in his Nirvana years... Amazing woman! And she LOVES me! She fucking loves me!"

This seems to strike Stevie as particularly hilarious and his head drops back on the couch so he can enjoy a private chuckle without having to worry about keeping his head up or wondering why there's two Xabis looking bedraggled and pissy in front of him. _Twins... HOT!_

"She let him have the French sherry?" Jon makes sure to ask in English, a glint in his eyes. "The one you and Mikel only get at Christmas?"

Xabi busies himself with taking Stevie's shoes off as he'd rather not answer that.

"Hey, that tickles!... Ooooh… We’ve talked about this… Not in front of the kid, Xabier!" Stevie slurs through pursed lips and Xabi puts way too much effort into not cackling at his son's expense for it to not be a giveaway.

Jon is about to spring from the sofa when Stevie throws his arm around him and eventually focuses a glazed up but affectionate stare on him.

"Stop fighting it, mate. It's in your DNA, you're... genetically doomed to love me! Your sisters... they like me better than they like your Dad..."

"You go to their dolls’ tea parties and do French braids like a pro," Jon says and Stevie's not drunk enough to ignore the barb that's supposed to be hidden in there but somehow comes out blunted.

"Is not fair though, nobody can compete with fifteen years of experience," Xabi points out, unloading his jacket on the armchair.

Stevie's already forgotten what they're talking about and moves his head with some effort back and forth between Xabi's now smirky face and Jon's. A revelation seems to hit him at a speed that's far too great for his sluggish neurons.

"Amazing... Your grandma makes the same face... like you've all just caught a mouse you're pawing off for fun..."

"OK, bedtime for you," Xabi makes a move to haul Stevie off the couch, but he’s not cooperating, too busy digging through his pockets instead.

"Mhmm... I think this is my stop for the night, Xabs." Steven finally fishes his wallet out of his jacket and turns to Jon. "Twenty Euro to get the dog off the couch and let me lay down."

"Fifty..." Jon says, his eyes narrowing into amber slits.

"Deal," Steven smiles with delight and shoves a 100 note into Jon's grabby hand.

Both teen and pup are up on their feet before Steven gets to spread his heavy limbs on the sofa.

"Extortion is illegal, you know," Xabi says with a sigh.

Jon flicks the green note in half and waves it under his father’s nose.

"He’s so cute and learns tricks so fast, aita. Can we keep him?” He then bows his head down towards Steven and adds tenderly: “Good night, Daddy!"

The pitter patter of oversized paws follows him up the stairs.

"See? They all love me."

Xabi spreads a wooly blanket on top of Stevie who looks too relaxed and too heavy to be worth an attempt at shepherding him to the bedroom.

"You're irresistible on sherry," Xabi concedes but he's smiling and letting the relief wash through him fully.

_They'd be fools not to. But I'd make up for it anyway._

He blinks away the realization that one can love enough for an entire autonomous region of Spain and leans down to tuck Stevie in properly. Stevie grabs Xabi’s tie to lower his face to his.

"Admit it, you want me bad when I go into DILF mode like just now."

"Brush your teeth when you come to bed," Xabi orders but kisses him on the lips with a loud smack nonetheless.

Stevie's cold after 3 a.m. He manages to reach the bedroom without damaging his shins on any furniture pieces, curls around Xabi's sleeping form and slides his hand under Xabi's tshirt, up and down his belly, making him arch his warm back.

That morning, Xabi wakes up inexplicably thirsty for milk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck Tony Pulis!


	4. 5 Paparazzi Pictures Alex Has Cruelly Texted Gratty After the Divorce (Hashtag cantbelieveitwozntu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You blast Katy Perry’s ‘I kissed a girl’ when you drive through the sea of paparazzi and laugh your head off when Gratty calls to ask if it’s all for real _‘He never, not once, hit on me. I mean I was right there, y’know?’_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You blast Katy Perry’s ‘I kissed a girl’ when you drive through the sea of paparazzi and laugh your head off when Gratty calls to ask if it’s all for real _‘He never, not once, hit on me. I mean I was right there, y’know?’_."  
> [This chapter of Between Acts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/818819/chapters/1653867) has thrown Professional Hanger On Gratty (not technically into dick, but he'd have appreciated the attention, y'know?) into an existential tailspin. Alex is having fun with it.

5\. Troube in Paradise? Daily Mail Exclusive Photos of the Notoriously Private Couple Hitting a Rocky Patch While Vacationing in New Zealand

Pictured: Xabi trying to convince Stevie to follow him up an actual rocky patch in a crisp mountain stream. He's wearing a classic lumberjack flannel + vest with way too many pockets combo accessorized with wellies and a ridiculous floppy fishing hat he's bought from the gas station and keeps motioning upstream with his fishing rod, trying to lure Stevie towards a part of the stream where the trout is THIIIIIIIS big according to the fishing magazine he'd picked up at the airport.

Stevie's wearing a scowl and looks ready to hit Xabi over the head with the bait bucket he's been stuck carrying for the past hour and a half.

However, the next pictures in the series seem to indicate a peaceful resolution when Stevie has to duck the tiny snapper Xabi swings victoriously at his head. Xabi's feline grin of self-satisfaction is soon wiped off his face via make out session in the middle of the river.  

4\. Instagram snaps from Eibar fans spotting Stevie and Xabi in the stands at a Copa del Rey game with Emma and Lourdes wearing football kits. 

3\. Xabi messing with his unnecessarily high tech camera and taking pictures of Stevie playing football with tourists' children in the surf at Zarautz beach. 

2\. Hola paparazzi pictures of the two of them lounging in their swimming trunks, facing each other in a massive hammock somewhere under a palm tree in a tangle of tanned-on-pale limbs. Stevie is playing on his phone with one hand and rubbing little spirals around Xabi's knee hanging over the edge of the hammock with the other. Xabi's seemingly absorbed in the latest Dennis Lehane novel, although a careful observer could easily follow his line of sight from under Xabi's straw fedora to Stevie's bare foot resting on his shoulder.

(Alex makes sure to send Gratty a link to the Google translation from Spanish...)

1\. A suspiciously well framed, high quality beach snap of Xabi massaging high-factor SPF lotion across Alex's naked back while Stevie feeds her ice-cream.

May or may not have actually been taken with Alex's phone.


	5. 'I was gonna take incriminating photos of Stevie wearing earrings but then I got high'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I was gonna take incriminating photos of Stevie wearing earrings but then I got high'- Xabi Alonso, a biography.

“I just hope that one day—preferably when we’re both blind drunk—we can talk about it.”

    J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey

 

It started the other night, as you were having dinner. You had cooked mussels in white wine and garlic sauce, rosemary fries that were just the right side of crispy and miniature lemon cakes for dessert. You had spent two hours and a half in the kitchen and all the food disappeared in less than fifteen minutes. And that with Jon barely eating as he was busy texting under the table.

You felt like whimpering in your plate.

To be honest, though, it was mostly your fault that the cooking lady quit. Something along the lines of ‘ _if you’re so good at it, do it yourself. And while you’re at it, go fuck a duck, cause let me tell you son, you’re clearly incapable of cooking it!_ ‘made you consider the fact that you might actually have an interference problem. Especially when the words were muttered by a 70 year old woman who looked remarkably like your grandma.

The first one you hired lasted even less. Hell, she didn’t even get around to cooking. She just asked Stevie at what time he usually has dinner. He sheepishly answered five before you could jump in and stop him. The woman ran for the hills and never looked back. She did tell you the name of a good priest who dealt with exorcisms, though.

You made a note of that for kinky Wednesdays and ended up having to cook for a combination of 12 people and a 200 pound dog. Thankfully, it’s only you, Stevie, Jon and Emma now. Ane and the girls are with Alex in Paris to perfect their French- Stevie’s left eye twitched for two days straight at Alex’s wording. Jon’s girlfriend didn’t join you either; apparently they’re on a definite break from being on and off. You feel a bit relieved. That girl can eat with the best of them

‘Aita?’

‘Yes, Em?’

‘I want clean my room tomorrow, put some things away..’

You’re not really paying attention because you’re busy dueling Stevie with pieces of bread for what’s left of the sauce but you get the zest of it. She’s turning ten in a couple of months so the princess tea set has to go. You’re not going to cry about it in the mussels pan.

‘I was wondering if Stevie could help me. He’s good at organizing stuff.’

The forty-three man on your right fucking preens.

Seriously, you’ve never seen his face glowing with such demented satisfaction outside of your bedroom.

Not in the kitchen, at least.

 ‘Aita, will you help too?’

Bugger, there _was_ that one time come to think of it.

 ‘I’m sorry, Em, I have to drop by the club.’

Jon snorts in his lemon crust. You acutely regret enlisting him in the Academy and thus throwing away your strongest alibi.

You rest your head on Stevie’s shoulder.

He steals your bread.

***

When you come home the next evening, after having been harassed by all the socios as if they don’t see you every other day at Arzak, all you want to do is watch reruns of Mad Men and complain about Stevie ordering fish and chips.

You’re met with a different sight altogether. Emma and Stevie are apparently having air-tea from those miniature cups decorated with the Aristocrat Cats for old times’ sake. She’s smiling with some missing teeth and wearing that pink tutu she managed to somehow get off Ane- you’re a bit worried about how good your children are at extortion.

And Stevie.. Stevie’s wearing clip on earrings and a motherfucking tiara.

You’re heart stops beating for a second and when it does return to its normal function it pumps unaltered rage.

You do realize this is not exactly an appropriate reaction but your brains is yelling to flee or fight and you’re not about to orchestrate a fight with Stevie while the poor man is still wearing chandelier earrings.

You make your way to the small beach behind the house, sit down and hide your head between your knees.

You remember an interview from a lifetime ago in which you said you rarely lose control and laugh through a self-diagnosed panic attack.

Jon plops down next to you, followed, of course, by Txiki who starts licking your face in sympathy.

‘You know, you could just tell Stevie crossdressing’s not your thing. Communication is the key to any relationship.’

‘Jon.. For the love of God, please.. Stop. Talking.’

He smirks but has enough mercy to shut up and present you with a paper bag to breathe through.

It takes more than it should to calm you down but after a while you look someone Xabi Alonso, the class master, might be seen in the company of on a bad day.

You rest on your elbows and give Jon the bag back.

‘You do realize there are still 2 joints in there?’

‘You do realize _your_ dealer’s in my history class, right?’

You sigh in defeat, hoping for a very violent wave.

‘He’s overcharging you, by the way, but it’s not like you can’t afford it.’

He stands up and smiles indulgently. You hide your face in your arms.

He leaves the bag with you.

Which means that when Stevie sits next to you twenty minutes later, all you want to do is rub yourself against his attempted beard and get scratched behind the ears while purring contently

 And is that fucking lip gloss?

You obviously can’t deal with this so you light up the second joint and pass it to him.

‘You know, when Nagore told me she wanted a divorce I was convinced she was cheating on me.’

‘You don’t sound conceited at all’, he laughs, holding in a cough.

‘I couldn’t understand how she could leave me for nothing when I couldn’t.. I didn’t even properly consider.. Don’t get me wrong, I thought about it, probably more than I should have, but never with any real intent.. ’

The waves are crashing, lulling you in something like a trance in which your only coherent thought is how the fuck does Jon get better pot than you.

‘I didn’t say anything either.’

The sand is still warm under your fingers but the sun is long gone. You don’t know for sure what time it is but you’re pretty sure it was almost sunset back when an overworked secretary was chasing you with some papers that needed to be signed two weeks ago, _por favor señor, Alonso, it will only take a moment_.

‘But..?’

‘I thought it very loudly in my head at times.’

You snort into his shoulder and take another puff.

You are distantly aware of all the impracticalities, the ensuing mess, the chants, the risks; of all those things that blocked any conscious thought that getting high with Stevie in the backyard of a house with both your names on the lease was actually possible..

But everything feels so much like a fluke, like a happy accident of both your wives being done with you..

It makes your entire existence fragile.

You much prefer conscious decisions to even the most favourable twist of fate.

Maybe you could have had two, _three_ years more. Three years more of coming home to Stevie playing dress up with the girls and dribbling Jon in the living room. Three years more of trying to steal your mother’s cook and having her threats of bodily harm whispered in your collarbone by Stevie. Three years of not having to remind yourself you’re happy. Three more years of falling asleep lulled by his snores. Three more years of dealing with his freak-outs and the military expenditure he calls spring cleaning..

Jesus..

To anyone who’s seen you eat, it should come as no surprise how greedy you are.

He turns to you and smiles. In that moment, your sexuality can be described solely by those lines that form around his eyes when he’s amused.

‘So, do you have anything else planned for tonight, after you’re done crying over spilled milk?’

‘No, not particularly. You?’

‘I was thinking of something but.. where the hell does Jon get his pot?’

‘Not from his history classmates, apparently.’

He laughs and you roll around until you find yourself a comfortable position. You’re laying half on top of him so you can’t really attest to his level of comfort.

You close your eyes for a moment and Jon wakes you up the next morning, face contortioned in a combination of amusement and second hand shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the snippet from an [interview in which Xabi talks about losing control](http://unamadridista.wordpress.com/2013/02/25/xabi-alonso-at-vanity-fair/)
> 
> \- You appear to be a restrained man. When do you lose control?  
> \- On the field, at times, but I don’t lose too much control. It’s not me. I try not to exaggerate because when I see a teammate do it, I don’t like it at all…
> 
> While unrelated I'll also leave this here http://24.media.tumblr.com/b7d39e0cfc704a704fb66e7392160a81/tumblr_n64gbgzs4E1qaosmto7_250.gif  
> And [this](https://vine.co/v/MwgOWFxgAIU).. (Not my gifs/posts though after watching them for three days I do feel an emotional connection to them.)


	6. ‘Honey, I Shrunk the Kids’- the slightly mobster version

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stevie feels he was transported into the mobster version of ‘Honey, I Shrunk the Kids’. Again.

It’s 2:56.

Xabi has been dragging his knuckles up and down Stevie’s spine for the past half an hour.

Stevie considers himself quite the expert in decoding the ulterior motives hidden behind Xabi’s touches. This is not a mindless caress. Hell, caress is a bit of an exaggeration in itself. Stevie’s quite sure he’ll have bruises tomorrow.

There are two choices.

He can either let Xabi know that yes, goddamit, he’s awake or just keep on suffering in silence.

Xabi’s fingers continue their insisting path while Stevie wrestles with this dilemma. He could roll over, distract Xabi and give his fingers something better to do, but he doesn’t like his chances. If Xabi had been in the mood to relive their youth by fucking while Carra’s snoring only a room away, they’d be making their way to the second round right about now.

But no.

Xabi apparently wants to talk.

Stevie edges away in what he considers to be an imperceptible fashion.

‘Oh, you’re awake?’

Stevie makes sure to poke Xabi in the sternum as he turns around.

Xabi’s face could have passed as innocent twenty years ago but now just resembles a disgruntled cat.

‘I think I heard something.’

‘Carra’s sleeping in the next room. I’d be worried if you _didn’t_ hear something. I don’t feel like having to drag his corpse across the Channel.’

‘No.. but. I have a bad feeling.. Jon and Mia kept looking at each other over dinner-’

‘You made crabs. They were shit out of things to do.’

Xabi scowls and mumbles about how his talents are clearly wasted.

Stevie nudges his foot with fondness, eyes crinkled.

‘Come on, I’m sure you’ll inherit Leonora.’

‘My mum did say that the only way I’ll get my fat paws on her would be over her dead body.’

‘Well, if you’d have had your way she’d have served the second course from your lap.’

‘Exactly. I was willing to take one for the team. Close my eyes and think of England. Literally! I mean, do you even realize how much free time we’d have if we didn’t have to cook?’

‘Xabs, we’re unemployed. How much more free time do you need?’

‘We’re not unemployed. We’re retired.’

‘We’re forty.’

‘Fine.’

A spell of silence in which Stevie hopes Xabi’s asleep despite the fact that they’re currently playing footsie under the sheets.

‘I’m still worried about Jon.’

‘Oh, come on, it’s not like the kid has a death wish.’

‘He welcomed Carra with ‘ _Jamie, my man_ ’ and then fist bumped him. I’m not putting my money on his self-preservation instincts.’

‘Yeah, but anyway, Mia’s rooming with Ane. I don’t have to remind you that her hearing’s so good we had to soundproof the walls twice.’

Xabi props himself on his elbow and glares at Stevie.

‘So you admit they were looking at each other.’

Stevie sighs and wonders if it’s worth the effort of smothering Xabi with a pillow for 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

‘Yes, Xabi. Two people eating together at the same table looked at each other. Quick, alert the authorities.’

Xabi looks as if he’s considering using the fluffy pillows with criminal intent himself.

‘You reopened your Instagram account just so you can stalk Lilly’s and you dare call me paranoid.’

‘I’m not _calling_ you paranoid.’

Xabi’s face looks as if he could hear italics.

‘It’s just that you chose a shit time to worry about Jon. The last time you tried to talk to him ended up with him telling you that the third person is always a stranger.’

Xabi huffs, not bothering to look properly indignant, and falls back on the pillows. This concerned parent thing is exhausting. Ridiculing Stevie while _he_ freaks out comes a lot more naturally to him.

‘It’s not just Jon I’m worried about.’

‘What? Afraid Mia will break _his_ heart?’

‘More like afraid Carra will break my legs.’

Stevie can’t really find it in himself to say that’s not a possibility so he tries placating Xabi by licking behind his ear.

‘I’ll stay between you and him if it comes to it’, he promises as solemnly as possibly with his fingers playing with the edge of Xabi’s boxers.

Xabi starts laughing so hard the headboard begins to hit the wall in a dull rhythm. Stevie can’t wait to hear Carra complain about it over breakfast.

‘You think, you actually think..Oh God!’

More giggles followed by Xabi sputtering like a cat preparing to spit a particularly large fur ball.

Stevie stands up to fetch Xabi a glass of water (and an Ambien for himself) but Xabi catches his elbow and looks up to him with what he probably wants to be a sober expression.

‘You actually think Carra’s gonna care you and Jon are not technically related?’

Huh.

He’s probably going to need two Ambiens if he wants to fall asleep to that particular thought.

He snuggles back into Xabi, adjusting to the feeling of impending doom.

 Complete, graveyard silence.

‘Xabi..’

‘Mhmm.’

‘I think I heard something.’

 

Their movements are weighted down by the ridiculousness of their actions. Hence, they almost stumble into Ane who’s diligently filming Jon and Mia making _patatas bravas._  

She brings a perfectly manicured finger to her lips and glares them into silence.

It’s not the first time Stevie feels he was transported into the mobster version of ‘Honey, I Shrunk the Kids’.

No matter how much Ane is vibrating with delight, Stevie doesn’t find the situation to have that much blackmail potential. Jon and him regularly meet up for midnight snacks when Xabi’s concoctions leave them angry at having to wrestle their food using cutlery they don’t know the name of.

Xabi seems to agree with him, looking way too relieved for someone who was freaking out about Mia and Jon being in the same room.

Hell, he’s already walking up the stairs, a spring in his step.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To bed, obviously,’ he scoffs.

Stevie does not punch him.

‘What, you think I’m gonna sit around at watch my son peel potatoes at three in the morning?’

It takes a considerable amount of self-control.

Stevie falls asleep feeling slightly used and out of the loop but not really in the mood to wrestle information out of his bipolar bed partner.

 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait too much to make sense of the situation. Carra is about as subtle as the Great Wall of China on steroids.

It’s not a clear cut offer but he talked to Jon’s coach and Stevie stops listening from there on because he knows the drill and because Xabi has gone stiff on his right, cutting his eggs with movements straight out of ‘How To Act Normal- A Practical Guidline’.  

Jon interrupts Carra’s rant with surprising gentleness and Stevie wonders how he can look so young and so old at the same time.

‘Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate it. I do. Really. But..’

Carra nods and presses no further which in itself is a small miracle.

Jon glances at his father.

Xabi continues to stare at his eggs.

Stevie remembers the time he thought he couldn’t be happy outside football.

It’s Ane’s turn to wash the dishes but she flashes Jon a smile and says something about late night dinners that makes him accept a swift change in the chore schedule that’s stuck to the fridge.

Stevie finds Xabi on the balcony resting against the rails and smoking this week’s last cigarette ever while looking at the grey clouds above.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.’

Stevie considers this for a few moments.

‘You could have.’

Xabi smiles and rests a good portion of his weight on Stevie who came to stand besides him.

‘He’s two years younger than I was when I almost won the league with La Real, you know?’

Stevie does know. He may or may not have bookmarked on his laptop some interviews Xabi gave back then.

Xabi looks at him a bit unsure and a bit unrepentant.

‘Is it wrong that I wish his biggest worry would continue to be failing Chemistry for the next two years? Three if he actually fails it?’

‘No.’

Xabi stumps his cigarette and rests his head on Stevie’s shoulder, exuding gratitude.

‘I _am_ sorry.’

‘You have nothing to be sorry for. And you’re not.’

Xabi smiles against Stevie’s temple and goes inside to explain to Carra that yes, this is Spain and yes, it is raining.

Stevie remembers the time he thought he couldn’t be happy outside football.

He laughs quietly for a moment and goes inside to deal with Carra who had already applied sunscreen, goddamit.

 

 

 


	7. The one in which Jon get really lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gets really lucky while Xabi's luck runs out. In other words, a normal Friday.

Alex once told him it was like finding yourself alone at sea.

Stevie would say it’s more like picking an injury in a friendly with some country whose population is not large enough for incest to be frowned upon.

Or maybe like a heart-attack.

He sits down and tries to reason with himself.

Despite what his bookie might tell you, Steven Gerrard is a man of reason. A sensible man. A down-to-earth, matter-of-fact, hard-headed man.

Like all such men, he’s insanely neat with his self-delusion. Give him two hours and a spreadsheet and he’ll have all his attempts at orchestrating reality listed in alphabetical, chronological and geographical order. As of late it’s been just betting on Eibar, mentally adding ‘study’ before every time the word ‘date’ is mentioned in relation to any of his daughters and thinking he’ll actually make progress in Spanish with Xabi as his teacher.

The thing with self-delusion though, is that it tends to get a life of its own after a while.

This is why when the last ditch of deniability breaks he’s hit full force, when in fact he should have known better.

Fuck, Jon even stuck to the fridge the long list of Xabi’s teams, making jokes about the five year itch.

He should have fucking known.

He takes his keys and goes to pick up Jon from training after his shitty excuse of a car, also known as Xabi’s stupid attempt at teaching him the value of money, broke down.  And no, he can’t catch a ride with Xabi because Xabi hasn’t been at the club in months. Actually, his secretary gave him some papers that needed signing two weeks ago. And can Stevie please not drive like a grandma? Jon’s taking out the aforementioned secretary tonight. Also, he’s taking Xabi’s car.

Stevie’s always wondered, as an intellectual exercise more than anything, how much of a component to what they had was the seediness of renting hotel rooms with their brothers’ debit cards and asking the reception to just leave the breakfast tray outside the room.

He’d try a bit more valiantly to deny the possibility of Xabi sending everything to hell for a good fuck, but self-delusion can only go so far.

_This meeting’s running longer than I thought. Meet you for tapas later?_

Stevie tries to amuse himself with the idea that at least he’s not fucking his secretary while feeling every bone in his body crack with hollowness.

***

He knows, okay?

He knows and he should have known the first time Xabi showed real enthusiasm about going to work.

Whatever’s left of his catholic upbringing knows damn well that what goes around comes around.

He always found it jarring when Xabi used to laugh himself silly because most of their sleeping around took place in hotel rooms that had no other books in them but the Bible.

He knows that flirting is the only way Xabi can communicate, covering for his aloofness and his inability to look like he gives a fuck about whatever he’s saying.

(Xabi blames it on being a middle child. Stevie blames it on Xabi being an egomaniac. )

It never really bothered him, though. Who cares if Xabi can make anyone from sixty year old grandmas to the neighbor’s dog flush and sputter under his attention? Stevie’s the only one who knows that he puts Coke in his red wine. The only one who’ll ever know. ( Xabi drew a contract.)

Stevie looks at the man beside him as he’s trying to turn the page with the same hand that’s holding the book because the other one is mindlessly running lines on Stevie’s ankle.

And he can’t believe Xabi’s doing this with someone else every Thursday from 1 to 4.

For one, the man is incapable of keeping to a schedule.

***

It’s a night like all the others. Stevie’s trying to get the dog out of their bedroom and Xabi’s muttering about Jon stealing his car. Stevie’s on the verge of telling him that his ass is getting too big for the Aston Martin anyway when he remembers there’s another conversation they’re supposed to be having.  

‘Xabi, is there anything you need to tell me?’

Even the beast stays still.

Stevie expected some embarrassing story about a pottery class.

What he gets is Xabi’s involuntary shrug he’s seen in hundreds of press conferences and the world collapsing on itself

‘No.’

***

He wakes up the next morning to an already throbbing headache and his phone ringing.

‘Steven. Stevie. I have this small favor to ask him..’

‘Jon-’

‘No, no, hear me out.’

‘Hanging up now.’

‘It’s dad.’

‘Really hanging up now.’

‘He twisted his ankle or something and he asked me to go pick him up but, uhm.. I have some..eh.. things I need to attend to and seriously, it’s like a proper, God sent- _oh fucking fuck yes!-_ ’

Stevie drops the phone and drags himself to the bathroom so he can drown himself in the shower.

***

Stevie wasn’t really paying attention when he punched the coordinates Jon sent him in the GPS. As far as he was concerned he was going to pick Xabi from some sex related injury so no, he didn’t care for any particular region. He was hoping for some place far enough from their home that it wouldn’t make the thing even more grotesque than it already was, but still close enough that he wouldn’t have to stop for gas.

What he did not expect was a makeshift football field with Xabi in the stands, cheering his heart out to whatever was happening.

The cheering stopped, though, and was promptly replaced by cold horror when he saw Stevie. He actually tried to drag himself further away, but all plans for escape where ruined by his swollen ankle.

Xabi hides his face in his hands as Stevie sits down beside him, trying to make sense of whatever’s happening on the field. It would resemble some form of rudimentary football had it not been for the goat on the field.

‘Xabi, why is there a goat on the field?’

The only answer he gets is a long drawn whimper.

Stevie almost misses it because there’s a huge man on the sidelines screaming at everyone in a language that’s neither Spanish nor Basque.

‘I’ll kill Jon! I’ll fucking kill him.’

‘I think that’s being taken care of.’

The goat stops a shot on goal and Stevie kind of wishes Xabi _was_ cheating on him.

‘Xabs.. is the goat your goalkeeper?’

Xabi looks at Stevie with a pained resignation on his face.

‘It’s fair enough. The other goalkeeper has only one functioning hand.’

The situation is so absurd Stevie can’t find it in himself to laugh. He also has a feeling that if he did it, Xabi would start crying and try to crawl his way to the middle of the earth.

‘The ref is color blind.’

Stevie’s face probably asks for more information because Xabi continues.

‘ _El Hefe_ ‘s son is our best striker,’ he says pointing to the fat man who looks like he’s about to have a stroke from all the screaming. ‘His parents are first cousins though, so he’s not exactly the brightest bulb.’

Two people who looked to be on the same team suddenly engage in a fist fight. The goat breaks it up.

‘I thought you were cheating on me.’

‘Really, Stevie?

Xabi has this disappointed look on his face but as a rooster starts pecking on his leg he shrugs and leans into Stevie, losing all claims to indignation.

‘I suppose it would have been better, no?’

‘A bit, yeah.’

‘We can pretend. A nice affair with one of my secretaries- ’

‘You have more than one?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Nothing, it just, uhm, makes sense.’

Silence stretches into absurdity.

‘I could explain.’

The rooster makes his way to Xabi’s shoulder as if he belongs there.

‘You could try.’

Xabi starts laughing quietly.

‘I always thought there were so many things outside football I could do. I studied engineering, for fuck’s sake. Had two years of business school. Read things other than footballer’s biographies. Drank the best scotch. Wore the best shoes.

‘Football wasn’t who I was, it was what I did and all that bullshit..’

Xabi shakes his head and pretends to be checking on his ankle.

‘I had taken so much care in cultivating this fucking identity.. Everyone was convinced that I’d go for a start-up or join FIFA. Open a restaurant. Go into politics.. I just want to fucking play, Stevie! That’s it. That’s all I fucking want. Coaching is like taking a piss with someone else holding your dick but even that won’t fucking happen because the whole of Basque Country decided to hate me-’

‘Xabi, you said your retirement from international duty did not include the Basque team because the country is not recognized internationally. Just be glad they didn’t blow up our house.’

‘That was taken out of context.’

‘You have a problem, Xabs.’

‘Such empathy. Dr Peters would be proud.’

‘Go fuck yourself. I knew you had a problem somewhere between CSKA Moscow and Qatar. I just didn’t know it involved goats.’

Xabi starts sobbing in his hands.

Stevie cards his fingers through Xabi’s hair, hoping to convey enough comfort without interfering with the giant bird perched on Xabi.

‘Oi, come on. I was joking.’

‘It’s not that, you moron! The rooster shit on me!’

It takes them a couple of hours to get to a point where they can look at each other without it devolving into hysterics.

And all that progress is sent straight to hell when Stevie takes a break from biting on Xabi’s earlobe to inquire about their future opponents.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my attempt to deal with Xabi changing teams like I'd change lanes if someone was crazy enough to give me a driving licence. Vaguely inspired by [this article.](http://www.nytimes.com/2014/04/19/sports/soccer/a-romanian-team-that-welcomes-all-if-they-have-the-talent.html#)


End file.
